Free In This Hospitable Land by Jr. Lynmar Brock Page B

added.
    They turned off the main road, striking out in a very different direction than the rest of the refugees they could see. Shortly they were all alone on a very small road. Only a few lights showed in the twilight.
    “It’s set in a garden,” Alex said searching. “Right beside the Seine…”
    “There it is!” Geneviève cried out joyfully.
    The little inn—a half-timbered building with brickwork at the entrance, constructed in the Norman style typical of the area’s architecture—seemed perfect: a centuries-old structure that had been altered only enough to accede to the most pressing modern demands. Geneviève and Alex remarked on the warmth the place had retained. Everyone was charmed by the gardens surrounding the main building, with walkways set among flowers, bushes, and a few trees. A pergola here and benches there enhanced the lovely, isolated setting.
    The burly innkeeper, recognizing Alex and Geneviève, effusively welcomed the Sauverins. For the few minutes it took him to check them in the war seemed mercifully distant.

     
    After a fine and filling family-style meal in a cozy dining room, the Sauverins settled down in adjoining rooms. It was wonderfully comfortable and Louis was especially grateful for the soft mattress complete with fluffy pillows. He felt full, content, and secure.
    During the night he was awakened by the sound of bombs exploding. Tiptoeing to the window he pulled back the shade. A nightmare landscape of bright flickering fires burned in and around Rouen. Hypnotized, Louis watched helplessly as flames licked at the uneven towers of the cathedral.
    Dreadful. Horrendous. How glad he was not to be there.

     
    As dawn broke, smoke hung over Rouen. The city was altered dramatically, the tall spires of its many churches and towers shortened to jagged stumps. Other buildings were reduced to unsteady walls without roofs to support.
    The heartsick Sauverins sat in the inn’s small breakfast room joylessly eating croissants.
    “It’s my birthday tomorrow,” Katie whined. “Will I still get presents?”
    “Tomorrow is tomorrow,” her mother said sadly.
    “Drink your milk,” her father ordered.
    A radio crackled in the kitchen. The innkeeper brought a fresh pot of coffee and news.
    “Yesterday the Germans broke through the Dyle Line,” he said.
    The Dyle Line had been constructed between Antwerp and Namur after the Great War to protect the eastern border of Brussels. Without it the Belgian capital was defenseless.
    “And today the Belgian government removed itself to Ostend,” the innkeeper continued grimly. “Also the French-Belgian border has been closed.”
    “It was only open for a day,” André breathed.
    “Lucky we made it through,” Alex said, sounding more glum than grateful.
    “We’d better be going,” Denise said.
    Silently, hurriedly, the Sauverins finished up, settled the bill and checked out of Les Andelys. Squeezing themselves back into their big Buick they started south, having no idea what road conditions or how much refugee-bearing traffic they might meet.
    “You think your friend will still have us?” Denise asked Geneviève. “You never answered her telegram.”
    “I didn’t have a chance. But I’m sure it’s all right. Lilla is a very good friend.”
    “She’d better be!” Alex groaned.
    André, driving again, peeked furtively at Alex and asked, “Do you think there’s another way to go? I can’t help thinking it would be faster and safer to stay off the main road.”
    “There ought to be a country road close by, along the Eure,” Alex said. Finding a narrow road running parallel to the river, André turned onto it.
    Its quiet was a relief. The road wound up and down undulating hills higher than any they had seen since entering France. The sight of woods of chestnut and oak trees covering land too steep to cultivate and streams that ran down little valleys into the river coursing steadily toward the Seine and the sea some two hundred